


A Gentleman Does Not Kiss and Tell

by 221b_hound



Series: Captains of Industry [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Hipsters, Australia, Barista John, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Inspired by the Sherlock Special photograph, John's Mustache, Kissing, M/M, Melbourne, Melbourne hipster cafe scene, Photographer John, Protective Big Brother Mycroft, saucy Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 06:30:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5037481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes to work at Captains of Industry after his day off with Sherlock to find a lot of nosy people wanting to know all the delicious details. John's not telling, though. A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell. But when Sherlock comes in to the cafe later, it's not like it isn't all obvious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gentleman Does Not Kiss and Tell

**Author's Note:**

> A fair bit of Aussie slang is used here, and I've tried to give definitions naturally in the text, but just in case:
> 
> chuck a sickie=call in sick to work; usually to do something fun because you're not sick at all  
> wag school=play hookey; play truant from school  
> a spunk=someone good looking
> 
> Feel free to ask for clarification!

For a man of mature years – he’s forty, for fuck’s sake; he was there in the ‘90s for the early days of Regurgitator and when Tex Perkins joined The Cruel Sea – Greg Lestrade has the giggle of a naughty little boy. He is giggling now as he listens at the door to Captains of Industry.

‘He’s on his way up!’ he declares, prancing away from the door and sitting down at a table. He changes position, changes again, and once more, until he feels he has achieved a pose sufficiently casual.

He hasn’t, by the way.

Mycroft would tut at his beloved’s antics, only, well, here he is too, two hours before his usual arrival time, burning with curiosity about the day and two nights the barista and his brother have spent together. Assuming Sherlock didn’t somehow make a hash of it. Or John. Mycroft thinks Sherlock is big and ugly enough to take care of himself, of course, but on the other hand, if John Watson has broken his brother’s heart, then Mycroft will be ensuring that all of John Watson’s suits are too tight, too short and too shredded to ribbons to…

The door opens and the thought is unfinished, because here comes the barista. Alone, by the tread on the stair.

Mycroft thinks about sharpening his best scissors.

John is whistling some dreadful song and stops to do an odd little dance, shuffling his feet and hips and elbows, so that it takes some time for him to actually get through the door. He keeps dancing the door wide and narrow, wide and narrow, without actually crossing the threshold. Mycroft can hear John chanting under his breath: ‘Ooga ooga ooga cha-ka, ooga ooga oog-’

The door opens and John stops dead. He stares at Greg’s bright I’m-so-innocent smile, at Molly and Sally ( _Sally! Up before noon!_ ) with their arms around each other’s waists and twin tell-me-all-your-secrets” expressions, at Mrs Hudson’s knowing smirk, and finally at Mycroft’s rather more wary and considerably more judgemental gaze of ice.

‘Uh… hello,’ says John.

John is in excellent form today, Mycroft observes. Beautifully dressed, as usual, moustache waxed to perfection and sitting perkily on his upper lip. Hair combed neatly, even a flower in his buttonhole. His shoes – are they patinaed? – look dashing and…oh. _Oh_. Is that a love bite just visible at his collar line? Yes it is. John Watson has a hickey, and is rather pleased by the fact. In all, John Watson is relaxed and happy and confident – more than usual – _and_ he was singing and dancing as he came up.

Mycroft mentally puts the Good Scissors back in a drawer and resolves to reserve further judgement until he has seen Sherlock.

‘Good morning!’ says Greg, with alarming cheerfulness.

‘ _Hipster in love_ ,’ chorus Sally and Molly.

‘Ah,’ says John, everything clear now, and he smiles a Mona Lisa smile, ‘I wondered why the place was so crowded.’

‘How’d it go?’ asks Greg, giving up the feeble pretence of nonchalance, ‘Tell Uncle Greg everything.’

‘You’re not my uncle, and no.’ John continues to smile quietly to himself as he moves past the crowd of interested onlookers and goes behind the bar to set up the counter for the day. He whips the teatowel off the silver Faema espresso machine and begins to prep it. He always does three pours with it before he unleashes coffee on the public, to make sure everything is clean, clear and at the right temperature. He does it every time, but he is particularly meticulous when he returns after a day off. Not that he doesn’t trust the other guy, but… well. John Watson takes his responsibilities seriously.

He looks up at Mrs Hudson as he begins his tasks. ‘Anything you wanted, Mrs H?’

‘Happy staff and no dramas,’ she says.

‘You got it,’ he says, and they exchange eye-twinkles before he goes back to work.

Greg is very nearly pouting. Well. No. He is actually pouting. Like a six year old, lower lip thrust out and quivering slightly, big brown eyes all… big and brown. Greg is a… Mycroft searches for the Australian term… a boofhead, sometimes. Such an _adorable_ boofhead, with his deliberately clumsy attempts at subterfuge and puppy-eyes. Of course, they work a treat on Mycroft Holmes. On John Watson, not so much.

‘You’ve dragged your sorry arse out of bed early for nothing,’ John tells him, with the faintest waggle of his eyebrows.

‘Yeah, nah, but did you have a good time?’ Greg asks, ‘Tell me you two had a good time.’

‘We went book shopping, found out we had some mutual friends beyond you sorry lot, and we had a picnic in the Fitzroy Gardens. So, yeah, we did.’

‘You’re a disappointment to me, John Watson.’ Then Greg takes out his phone. He has a new lock screen photo. #hipstersinlove, as posted by @stamfordtheman. ‘Lucky for you I’ve got spies everywhere.’

Sally kisses Molly’s cheek and goes to sit on a bar stool to drink, one by one, the first three pours, black. If she’s going to be up at oh-fuck-o’clock in the morning, she’s going to need the caffeine. When John won’t let her have the very first pour – ‘It’s rubbish, Sally, no’ – she scowls at him.

‘You’d thank me if you were awake,’ he says. She just snatches the second pour and then the third and takes both cups back to a chair and hoards them. Molly drops a kiss onto the top of her cranky head.

‘Come on, John, we came in early especially to see how it all went. Where’s Sherlock?’ She says it a bit gently, as though mindful of a distressing response. Maybe John’s only _pretending_ to be happy.

John rolls his eyes. ‘He has to work today. He went home after… breakfast.’ Then he grins, obviously remembering something. He grins wider, a faraway and fond look in his eyes. He’s remembering something _lovely_. He laughs a little, and it’s a very sexy kind of laugh. Ah. He’s remembering something _rated For Mature Audiences_.

Then he notices everyone looking at him and sobers. ‘Piss off, the lot of you.’ He ducks to the cupboard underneath the counter to bring out saucers, bowls of Demerara sugar and the collection of souvenir teaspoons they put on the saucers. He finds one with a picture of Flinders Street Station under the enamel – almost at the angle they saw it from the rooftop yesterday – and holds it aside.

When he stands up again, his audience has withdrawn. Each and every one of the little bastards is grinning smugly.

It’s a busy morning full of coffee and breakfast orders and then, at nine a.m., in swoops Sherlock Holmes. And he _does_ swoop, He also swishes. His hair is combed back in its usual severe style, and his suit is impeccable and his Crumpler bag is full, and he makes straight for the coffee counter.

He and John gaze at each other like the other one’s some kind of enchanted mirror, in which they see their own happiness reflected back at them.

‘Take your seat,’ John says, ‘I’ll bring over your usual.’

‘Thank you, John,’ says Sherlock in a thrillingly deep voice, and John’s ears go decidedly pink at the same time as he licks his lips and his big blue eyes get bigger and quite possibly bluer.

In the shoe studio, Greg grins and jogs Mycroft’s elbow. ‘Your little brother definitely scored a goal last night. Maybe a couple.’

Mycroft rolls his eyes, but then rises to stand at the door so he can read his brother’s profile. Sherlock is setting up his computer. He looks relaxed. Confident. Sherlock normally looks relaxed and confident anywhere except here, where he frets about John Watson and bollocks up the flirting.

He sees Sherlock’s feet through the legs of his chair. His toes are tapping. There is no music, but his feet are shuffling about as though practising a dance move in microcosm.

Mycroft sees John Watson take a coffee and mineral water over to the window seat. He sees his brother look up at John, then tilt his face up. He sees John kiss Sherlock on the lips, quick-and-soft, then grin, then kiss Sherlock quick-and-cute on his forehead. Sherlock’s profile shifts to the unfamiliar shape of – yes – a beaming smile. As John turns, Sherlock stares at John’s backside, turns to his coffee and picks up the spoon to stir the sugar in. He looks at the souvenir spoon – something about it makes him gaze at the enamelled picture for several moments, and his shoulders and back move in a subtle way that indicates pleasure – then gets back to work.

In the meantime, John marches jauntily back to the counter, where he sort of jigs on the spot for a second before settling.

John sees Mycroft looking. He tries to tamp down the joy for a minute. Then he just beams and shrugs a “what can you do?” at his boyfriend’s big brother.

Mycroft withdraws into the studio. Greg raises an eyebrow at him.

‘I think,’ says Mycroft with a discreet smile blooming slow around his mouth and eyes, ‘My little brother has finally found someone to properly appreciate him.’

‘Good. I know you worry about him. Constantly.’ He says the last word like it’s a running joke, but then Greg leans over to press a sweet kiss to Mycroft’s cheek. ‘D’you want to chuck a sickie? Seeing those two jokers with the hots for each other has reminded me of my own love life. Let’s go home and roll around in bed all day. I’ll put the ribbon on, if you like.’

Mycroft looks tempted but he says, ‘I should progress with Ms Adler’s suit.’

‘C’mon Professor Spunk, wag school with me.’

Mycroft can’t help the beginnings of a smile. ‘You remember that I told you what “spunk” means?’

‘Remember when I told you it’s Australian for “sexy”? But come home and you can cover me with spunk, you spunk.’

Mycroft puts a hand on Greg’s hip and slides it around until he can squeeze the top of Greg’s bum. Greg shifts so that Mycroft can get a better grip, which he does, and massages Greg’s lovely arse, still tight thanks to regular workouts of… various kinds.

‘Will you wear the red pumps as well?’ Mycroft murmurs as he nuzzles Greg’s jaw.

‘If you’ll wear my leather jacket and nothing else.’

It’s a done deal and they lock up and leave five minutes later. Greg waves a cheeky farewell to John, who laughs good-naturedly at their departure.

Sally, who had fallen asleep on the barber chair and has just been turfed out because Molly has a customer, watches the two men leave and then slumps at a stool at the coffee counter. John pushes a long macchiato towards her and she shovels three spoons of sugar into it. Then she holds the spoon up and stares at her warped reflection in it. She angles the spoon, trying to see into the barber studio and fails, so she folds her arms, drops her temple on them and watches her pretty girlfriend make a hairy man beautiful. She sighs, contented.

‘Love’s grand, isn’t it?’ she says.

John doesn’t reply – he knows Sally doesn’t expect a response – but as he wipes the steamer nozzle and sets up two more shots, his whole expression is saying “ _too right it is_ ”.

*

Sherlock stays for the lunch period instead of disappearing as usual, working away. John periodically brings him coffee, mineral water, the house-made ginger beer and a dozen casual brushes of his fingers over Sherlock’s shoulder, arm, hand, fingers. Sometimes Sherlock seizes John’s hand and kisses it. Sometimes he just smiles and enjoys the caresses. He’s like a flower and John’s a bee who can’t get enough of him.

This analogy pleases Sherlock as much as the constant visits do, and he sits by the window, blooming.

When John has his first break, he spends the twenty minutes in the kitchen doing something in the corner before buzzing out to kiss Sherlock’s cheek. ‘I’m working on some stuff,’ is all he says.

At his designated lunchtime, John spends twenty minutes working in the office – one of the spare studios – before sitting next to Sherlock and sharing a three-cheese toastie with him.

Mrs Hudson watches them, while Violet Hunter makes the coffees, and gives thanks that those two odd little fishies have found someone to swim with. She sees John say, ‘here’, and shows Sherlock something on his phone. Sherlock stares at the image there. He stares at John. He stares at the picture.

Mrs Hudson flits by ostensibly to collect a dirty plate and sees a picture of Sherlock’s eyes, four tiers of them treated with different effects. There’s a caption she can’t read without her glasses, but it seems to have affected Sherlock profoundly. John too, in fact. Reluctantly, she withdraws with the plate and clutches it like a steering wheel while she waits for the outcome.

‘Is it… do you mind?’ says John, filled with doubt, ‘If you don’t like it I can del-’

Sherlock wraps his hands around John’s skull to pull him close and proceeds to kiss John so intensely that the temperature in the front of the café goes up two degrees. John’s arms are wrapped tightly around Sherlock’s shoulders. He’s making a pleased little hum.

Before Mrs Hudson has to resort to turning a hose on them, they break apart and John is blinking, breathless and dazzled and pink-eared and hair-mussed and elated.

‘I love it,’ says Sherlock, and takes John’s phone to send a copy of the picture to himself. He looks up to find John still grinning dopily at him, and with a dopey grin back, he combs John’s hair back into place with his fingers and smooths John’s mussed moustache with his thumb.

‘I’ll be right back,’ says John, rising, and he trots passed Mrs Hudson as he heads towards the kitchen.

‘You don’t mind if I take a few more minutes?’ he asks.

‘Oh, of course not, John.’ She feels like an indulgent mum, finding her most solemn child has finally made a friend.

He disappears into his tiny corner of the kitchen where he likes to conduct his little experiments – some of which end up as menu specials – and returns ten minutes later with a plate full of little sweet treats. She steals one from the plate as he passes and pops it whole into her mouth. And it’s another foodie goal for Watson! Mrs Hudson thinks they’ll be perfect in place of muffins, which are getting passé anyway.

John sits down next to Sherlock with the remaining… not cakes, not slices, what the hell should they be called?

‘Here. It’s a new recipe I’m trying. Dates, almond meal, coconut oil and shredded coconut for the base. Crunchy natural peanut butter on that. Raspberries and coconut cream to finish. Or blueberries. Both are good.’

Sherlock slides one topped with blueberries off the plate and, just as Mrs Hudson did, he pops the whole thing in his mouth. Dense, sticky, textured sweetness meets crunchy unsweetened peanut meets the burst of berry meets light creamy coconut and the whole is like music in his mouth. It is at once filling and moreish. Not unlike John Watson.

‘Well?’ asks John.

‘Perfect,’ says Sherlock, ‘Just like you.’ He takes up another one but this he feeds by hand to John, before taking a raspberry-topped one for himself. They eat and swallow and grin at each other.

‘I got the idea from a friend in the Nicholas Building,’ says John, ‘Aranel. She’s a voice artist up on the fifth floor. She can’t eat cake.’

Sherlock picks up another. ‘She can’t have these ones, either.’

John laughs. ‘I’ll make her some later.’ He opens his mouth to let Sherlock feed him another.

Mrs Hudson looks at their soppy faces and decides to call the – cakes, slices, whatever they are – Aranel’s Love Bites.

*

Molly and Sally leave at five – off for dinner and then to Cherry Bar, where Sally's band Freak is playing tonight. Violet is on kitchen duty, flirting with Jayden the cook as they clean. Sherlock is still working at the window seat while John is cleaning up the coffee bar.

Once the espresso machine is put to bed, Mrs Hudson takes the teatowel from John and shoos him in Sherlock’s direction. John tries to protest and she flicks his ribs with the teatowel.

‘Go off and be in love,’ she tells him, ‘Just take fifteen minutes to send me the recipe tonight for the Love Bites. Those date things. I want to make up a batch tomorrow morning for the afternoon crowd.’

They hear a chair scrape and they both turn to see that Sherlock has packed up in nothing flat and has risen from his chair.

‘You’re a good sort, Mrs H,’ says John. He kisses her cheek as Sherlock arrives, then takes Sherlock’s hand and they head out into Melbourne to do whatever two people in love want to do on a warm, clear evening.

 _Go home and have a lot of sex, probably,_ thinks Mrs Hudson, just like Greg and Mycroft did. _Cheeky buggers._

She waits till the staff have all left, locks up, puts on John Paul Young singing _Love is in the Air_ and sits with her feet up on a table. She takes her sweet time to smoke a joint and contemplate asking her neighbour Dimitri Panopoulas on a second date. He’s been keen on it. They could go dancing. That would be nice. She likes dancing.

 _Love is in the air everywhere I look around_  
Love is in the air every sight and every sound  
And I don't know if I'm being foolish  
Don't know if I'm being wise  
But it's something that I must believe in  
And it's there when I look in your eyes

  
_You’re not wrong, Mister Young,_ she thinks, mellow and happy, _not wrong at all._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I will post the image that John made for Sherlock in the next post.
> 
> Regurgitator and The Cruel Sea are both bands from the 90s. Regurgitator has a terrifically wry and geeky humour and had some controversial song titles (like "I Sucked a lot of Cock to Get Where I Am").
> 
> Captains of Industry has a fantastic 3-cheese toastie. I recommend it.
> 
> The Love Bites were invented by me, after aranel_parmadil was sad that she couldn't eat the banana love sandwich that John first made for Sherlock. I worked with my niece Jessica to develop the gluten-free, dairy-free recipe and I'll post recipe and pictures here and on the [CaptainsofJohnlockTumblr](http://captainsofjohnlock.tumblr.com/) soon.
> 
> This clip is from the [ 90s revival John Paul Young's Love is in the Air](https://youtu.be/dDkwAenYxfY) when it was used in the soundtrack to Strictly Ballroom. If you haven't seen that film, you should. It's a corker. It also contains dancing on rooftops.


End file.
